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I managed to contact the two dog owners who had hired Cooper and to have preemptive phone conversations with them. When I explained that Cooper might have had a mix-up regarding the show dates—which I decided was a white-enough lie that I didn’t mind telling it—they were happy to hear that I would meet them and their dogs for no fee and no obligation, but if Cooper was able to straighten up his conflicts, I would quickly step aside.
Baxter and I had a pleasant time venting as we made the hour-plus drive south to Denver. We even snuck in a kiss after we’d parked near the female judge’s house. Linda Hastings had been expecting us, and she all but led the conversation. She told us she’d already heard unsubstantiated rumors about bribery charges being leveled over her judging in last year’s show. Ms. Hastings was going to take those bogus and slanderous charges to a court of law and directly to the AKC, and she had decided to resign as a judge this year.
Safely out of sight from the former judge’s house, we gave each other high fives, then drove to Mark Singer’s house. Baxter held my hand as we climbed the somewhat crooked front steps. He rang the doorbell, and we listened to a chorus of at least four dogs. “Collies,” I said. Baxter and I enjoyed playing the game of “guess the breed” from the barks.
“Goldens,” he said.
Our optimism regarding this second meeting, however, faded the instant Mark opened the door. He was a scruffy-looking man, tall, stooped over, uncombed salt-and-pepper hair and unshaven, in his sixties or so. He was wearing a safari vest. I half expected to see cans of beer in its pockets.
“You wasted your time driving here,” he barked at us. “I just got off the phone with Linda Hastings, and I’m not about to let baseless, petty accusations force me to resign. I know full well it’s that damned Marsala Podnowski who’s behind this. You ask me, she’s the one that pushed the dogs’ crates together and probably convinced Valerie’s employee that the damned bitch wasn’t in heat. If y’all want to replace me, I’m raising holy hell with the AKC and suing you for defamation of character.”
Baxter and I exchanged glances. I put on a smile and held out my hand to shake Mark’s. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Allida Babcock.”
“Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to forget my manners.” He shook my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Miss Babcock.”
Baxter was also extending his hand.
“I assume you’re the new guy, Baxter Something-or-other, the scab in charge of the Terrier class.”
Scab!? I widened my eyes and felt Baxter flinch.
“Baxter McClelland. Nice to meet you.” His voice and smile were remarkably complacent.
“Would you all like a drink of water or anything before you head back to Fort Collins?”
“That would be lovely,” I said, hoping maybe we’d at least be able to sit down and converse with him and improve our current person-non-gratis situation.
“Okay. Wait there. I’ll be right back.”
He shut the door, leaving us on the front stoop. “Yikes. He really, really doesn’t want to talk to us,” I told Baxter.
“Maybe his house is too messy for visitors.”
“I guess. I thought you said he was a ladies’ man. Should I have worn something with a plunging neckline?” I joked.
“That and maybe asked for a martini.”
Mark returned. He stepped onto the porch, shut the inner door behind him, and handed me the glass. “Oh, thanks for the ice,” I said.
“No problem. Making ice cubes is one of the few things I can do without recipe.”
I chuckled. The dog barks were still muffled. Apparently, we weren’t going to get a sighting to see if one of us could add a point to our running tally. Just then, I caught sight of the doorknob turning behind Mark’s back. The door opened a crack, and an Airedale rushed toward us, followed by two black Labs.
“Conrad! No!” Mark cried, grabbing the Airedale’s collar and one of the Lab’s. He tried to drag them back inside while pushing the third dog with one foot. “Conrad is not my dog,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m just taking care of him for a neighbor. He...knows how to open doors. The Airedale, I mean. Not the, uh, neighbor.” He managed to close the storm door behind the dogs, then leaned back against it to bar anymore jail breaks. His face had reddened. “Since he’s not mine, I’m not in violation of the rule about not judging the same category as a dog you own.”
“Which neighbor?” Baxter asked.
His cheeks reddened further. “He lives a couple of miles from here. Loose definition of a neighbor.”
Baxter was eyeing the doorknob of the storm door. “There are teeth marks on the doorknob. So the Airedale opens the door to get into your house? And yet you’re just dog-sitting him?”
“Um...” He scratched the back of his neck as he looked at the incriminating door knob. “One of my Labs taught him how to do that. Those are Labrador teeth marks you’re looking at.”
Baxter and I let his statement hang in the air.
His eyes suddenly brightened. “Hey, I got certified in Agility Trials. How ‘bout I opt out of the Terriers and judge that? To help you all out of your jam.”
“Deal,” Baxter said.
I inwardly groaned. I hid my disapproval by taking a couple gulps of water. “Thanks for the water.” I handed him the glass. “Let me know if you’d like me to give you some tips on training Conrad not to open doors.”
“See you both on Thursday,” Mark said as he shut the door behind him. “I’ll be preparing my agility ring for competition.”
I pivoted and headed toward the car. With a couple of long strides, Baxter was by my side. “Sorry,” he said. “I hate to saddle you with him as the judge. Mark’s the judge that gave Valerie’s Westland Terrier the Best in Class. I had to get him out of the conformation judging. At least that’s a timed event and not subjective. The original agility judge is also qualified to judge Terriers.”
“I understand that,” I said gently. “Still, I would have been much happier without having a judge who’s quite possibly partial to Valerie’s dog. Not to mention whose integrity is in question. And, besides, Jesse Valadez breeds Airedales. If Jesse’s Airedale wins best overall in agility, Valerie can make a stink about Mark’s bias toward Airedales. We’ll be right back where we started. And I’m her dog’s handler. She’ll find out we came to Singer’s house today for a private meeting, and she’ll be livid about how bad the whole thing looks.”
“Yeah, I should have thought of that. Still, I was here the whole time you two were talking and can attest to nothing untoward going on during your scandalous tete-a-tete.”
I laughed. “That’s very reassuring.” I glanced back at the house. “I do find it awfully hard to believe that he’s considered to be a ‘ladies’ man.’”
“Well, to be fair, the rumor was just that he was one, not that he was any good at it.”
Once again, Baxter made me laugh, and we were in good spirits as we headed to buy something inexpensive for lunch.
That afternoon, I had some free time to work with Bingley. Tracy was busy with her podcast and radio broadcast by then. She suggested I pick up Bingley, bring him to my house, and have him spend the night. She threw a ridiculously generous sum at me for doing so, and after she told me twice that, yes, she was sure it was not too much money, I accepted the offer.
I worked with Bingley first at the course on our property. A few months ago, when I’d agreed to coach Sophie Sophistica, Baxter had felt that this could eventually be a new source of income to replace our kennel earnings. He constructed all of the apparatuses himself. His were made of wood; colorful plastic pieces would be used on the actual course in Fort Collins.
Bingley and I easily spent an hour on the weave between posts, with very little to show for it. I also set up little ramps to teach him how to jump over the bars. That was somewhat successful, as long as the front ramp was in place so he only had to hop down. No matter how many times I jumped over the bars myself, cried “whee,” and coaxed him to the other side with treats, Bingley had the attitude that, unlike me, he had too much dignity to jump over something he could simply run around.
Determined, I moved one of the hurdles into a gate in the fence and tied the swinging gate to the hurdle. I then jumped over the gate myself and held out a piece of bacon to get him to jump over to me. He managed the feat. I made such a big deal about it, you would think he’d rescued a child from a well. I leapt back over the hurdle and called for him, offering another piece of bacon. He peed on the gate, then started rolling on the grass. This was not going to be easy. We were talking about a dog ignoring bacon here!
Finally, I did at least have some limited success at getting him to come to me from one obstacle to the next along the path I’d designated in my head. Even at that, I had to strike my desperation-come stance; when an off-leash dog runs away despite a “Come” command, the best enticement you can offer is to go down on one knee and hold out your arms as if you are now signaling the dog that he will be receiving a big hug as he rushes back into your embrace. Bingley broke the record for the most times I had to assume that pose in the least amount of times. My thighs a nice workout, at least.
––––––––
The following morning, I worked again with Bingley. I could get him to run beside me while on leash, but even though I’d prepared each apparatus by placing a treat at the top of the bridge and seesaw and middle of the tunnel, he leapt off the side or the front of immediately after scarfing up the treat, and fought like the dickens if I tried to pull him along the correct path. Leading horses to water and actually making them drink was a cake walk compared to leading a spoiled Beagle along an agility track.
As embarrassing as it was, I then tried having him chase a remote-controlled toy helicopter dabbed with peanut butter that I steered to fly directly over the course. I finally got him to jump over a hurdle that way, but halfway up the seesaw, I had an operator error and crashed the toy. Bingley promptly chomped the helicopter and grounded it permanently.
Next, I tried tying a slice of salami to a string and attached the other end to a fishing rod. I managed to get him to run the entire course in a little over an hour that way, although he missed every post in the weave. And committed countless foot faults. A decent run is under a minute. He was more than sixty times too slow.
For a moment, my hopes soared when I managed to locate a beginner-agility trainer who said she could check this week’s schedule. She asked Bingley’s breed. I longed to claim he was a Border Collie. But I told the truth, and the answer came back that she couldn’t possibly find enough time for a Beagle. That gave me a silly idea for a possible money-maker in the canine field: creating dog costumes that could make a Beagle look like a Collie, or vice versa. It wouldn’t be as lucrative as our kennel, but the neighbors would have a hard time suing us for owning sewing machines.
I was in a bad mood when I arrived at Jesse’s house. He and Dog Face were waiting for me on his front porch. Judging from his facial expression, he was in the same state of mind.
He pointed at me with one of his crutches as I climbed his steps. “So you threw me and my dog into the fire, I hear.”
I stayed on the top step, waiting until he quit aiming his crutch at me. “I assume you’re talking about Mark Singer being switched to judging the agility contest.”
“There are all kinds of ways a partial judge can rig a contest, you know.” He lowered his crutch. “He can make little noises while he’s in the ring with the dog. He can shift his position and block the entrance to an obstacle, take a step at precisely the wrong time, or make a gesture at the dog that confuses him.”
“I realize that, Jesse.” I cautiously stepped onto the porch. “But I’ll be in the ring with both your and Valerie’s dogs. If he makes noises or motions or stands in the wrong spot, I’ll file a protest. If he does something to distract a dog while my back is turned, the staff and his co-judge will catch it on the replay.”
“Mark Singer owns an Airedale, according to rumors. No way he’s going to want to give a ribbon to my Airedale.” He snorted. “Valerie must be thrilled. I wouldn’t be surprised if she orchestrated this whole thing herself.”
“There’s no way she could have. And it’s doesn’t tilt the competition in her favor to have Mark Singer as the judge.”
“Sure it does! She’s the one who’s been bribing him in past shows! For years now! We just haven’t been able to catch them in the act! Furthermore, we were told last year that we’ll have all new judges. But yesterday the program online was posted with most of the same judges. We’re told it was an oversight. Then we’re told that the worst judge of all, who’s practically broadcast he’s taking graft money from Valerie, is going to judge Valerie’s and my Terriers in a direct competition.”
This was worse than what I’d imagined he’d be yelling at me about. “I understand why you’re upset, Jesse. I would be, too. I am upset, even. But we’re just going to have to make the best of it.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Not really. I want my dogs to perform well almost as much as you do. It’s important for my career.” I decided against telling him that my business was in such shambles I had considered selling dog-breed costumes to disguise dogs. “But we’ve got the judge that we’ve got. If you want to withdraw Dog Face from the competition, I understand.”
“That’s precisely what Valerie wants me to do! No freakin’ way! I’ll have Dog Face in that competition even if I drop dead first.”